Tag Archives: Brazilian adventure

When my brazilian friends learned about my blog, they all immediately insisted that I write up the brazilian motel as a man-shopping topic about which my readers should be informed. At first I was confused. Motel? What could possibly be so culturally significant about motels, I thought to myself.

As it turns out, understanding the motel is key. Ladies and gentlemen, according to what I am told, don’t even thinking about man-shopping or lady-shopping in Brazil without knowing your motel options.

Apparently, everybody lives with their families and/or parental units, including adult singletons. When privacy is needed for amorous activities, it’s obviously uncomfortable of the couple when families are living on top of each other, so brazilians need a neutral location where they can cavort freely.

Hence… the motel.

They are geared specifically for sex and are not meant to be stand-alone accommodations like hotels. Rooms are rented only by the hour, and depending on the establishment, customers usually choose from rental options ranging from two-hour to four-hour chunks, although overnight and lunchtime deals including meals can also be found. You can order room service, you can order whatever you want, apparently. What really tickled me pink was the fact that, in addition to the minibar, sex toys are made available for purchase, and porn is often provided for free. How convenient!

In Brazil, everybody uses motels. They are not roadside lodgings that are found exclusively off desolate stretches of highway, as I, as an American, tend to think of them. They are a way of life in Brazil.

While there are, of course, seedier love motels, I was also told tales about fancy multi-level love motel rooms, about expansive skylights, plush velvet wonderlands…

Whether you opt for a dilapidated little establishment on the side of the road or whether you decide to splurge for the Disneyland of love motels, there is apparently something for everybody here in this sexually liberated country.

What is this strange world? A bizarre alternate reality in which puritanical values do not demand that people hide their need and desire for sex?

Oh, this would never happen in America…

Thank you, Marina, Marta, Milena, Camila, Nicole, Wagner, Mario, Elliot, and Gabu for enlightening me about your wondrous country. Next time I promise to actually visit a love motel instead of just being lame and writing about it months afterward…

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I know how you all love it when I get drunk at a club. So this time, I’ve a special treat for you!

I got drunk at a club again…

But this time, the club was in Brazil. On an island in Angra dos Reis. On a beach.

I know, it’s a tough life wearing nothing bikinis all day, drinking passionfruit caipirinhas on the water, and writing off lifting coolers full of beer as the only activity that remotely resembles “work”.

But caipirinhas and champagne were likely behind much of the malarkey that transpired during my stay in Brazil.

And that clubbing night, there was some obligatory cachaça, certainly, but there was also a shitfuckton of vodka involved. Oh lord.

What follows is the chain of events leading up to my arrival at the night club… (the times are approximate, as I am recounting all this after being in quite a state of intoxication)

9 p.m. – The group decides to go clubbing but, on my part, I decide that I was too tuckered to go out and that I should conserve my energy for New Year’s Eve festivities the following evening.

10 p.m. – Even though I’ve no intention to go out with my people, I still pour myself a *stiff* cachaça drink. Naturally. As a night cap.

11 p.m. – I pour myself another, possibly stiffer, drink while people make travel arrangements to get to and from the club.

12 a.m. – Third drink. The ladies are primping.

1 a.m. – Fourth drink. I decide that going clubbing is now a good decision. The ladies are still primping. The gentlemen are still in swim trunks.

1:05 a.m. – Slutty dress is on and some eyeliner is applied.

1:10 a.m. – The gentlemen have swapped swim trunks out for trousers.

1:15 a.m. – Shots. (Not my idea. But it was a brilliant one all the same.)

1:30 a.m. – Three sober(ish) people drive the group to the a neighboring town’s boat docks.

2:00 a.m. – While a designated haggler is tasked to negotiate carriage fees with the boat drivers, the rest of us stand around and drink more vodka. (No open container laws here!)

2:30 a.m. – I discover that getting into and out of a rocking boat whilst wearing sky high heels and a slutty dress, it’s a skill that I’d never needed until that moment. And considering how drunk I was, it’s a wonder I didn’t just fall into the ocean. Brazilian women, I tell you, they are warriors.

Here’s the thing, kids. I am too old to go clubbing. I really am. The average age of the revelers that night was 19. Maximum. At some point I tripped over a boy and girl sucking each other’s faces off, and when they came up for air, it occurred to me that even if you added up their ages, there was a decent probability that the resulting number would only barely exceed my own age.

But as we all watched the sun rise over the water from our beach club paradise, none of that mattered.

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I spent New Year’s Eve in Angra with friends and neighbors, and I can safely say that it was the best New Year’s Eve bash to which I’ve had the privilege of being invited.

Instead of dropping a truckload of money on a big (crappy) party at a nightclub, we opted to go in with our neighbors at the shared “club” here.

This, my friends, is the way to go. We all chipped in with homemade food, a DJ was hired, and some protective awning was put up in the event of tropical rain. We ladies put ourselves to work in the kitchen, while the lads were given a big box of decorations and were charged with decorating the club. (Surprisingly, this turned out NOT to be a mistake. I can’t believe it still, since they attempted to use drapes as tablecloths at first, but they made the place look stunning. I suspect that they may have lassoed one of the female neighbors into supervising the effort.)

I will say this: In this country, they sure know how to party.

They.

Throw.

DOWN.

Everyone dressed in white, convivial atmosphere, lots of food, and a seemingly endless supply of champagne…

Discoveries

It doesn’t matter what color underwear you wear under white; fear of its visibility becomes moot when you jump in the pool. Or when somebody throws you in.

Regardless of the party, Brazilians will start a conga line. Count on it.

Barnacles are sharp. Don’t touch them.

NYE highlights : Man-shopper goes wild

At some juncture, I took off my dress. I’m not sure when or why exactly I made this decision, but I suppose it doesn’t really matter now, does it? The point remains, I took off my dress.

I fell off the dock into the ocean. No, really. I literally took a long walk off a short pier.

After enough champagne, I’m sure I thought that I was the best dancer in the world, and I’m sure that this was not a pretty sight. I’m sorry, everyone.

At the end of the night, I passed out, on my back, dressed only in lacy knickers, on top of my covers. I suppose I should mention that I was sharing the room with three men, who also told me later that I was snoring like a wild beast.

One of my roommates purportedly brought home a girl, next to whom I apparently slept all night, but I was so zonked out that I had absolutely no idea. She probably didn’t appreciate my snoring. Or my nakedness, for that matter.

New Year’s Resolution #1: Drink less.

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About me

I'm a twenty-something American woman who tried to make sense of dating and romance in Paris -- or the lack thereof. The Frenchmen were products on the shelf, and I was a shopaholic. But the social experiment continues in D.C., now that I'm back in the USA and on the prowl for new (American) toys to play with!